The Story

For years, I lived in a relentless cycle of anxiety and depression. My panic attacks were so frequent and severe that ER doctors knew me by name. I couldn’t drive, couldn’t focus at work, and couldn’t even shower with the door closed. Watching TV or reading felt impossible—my mind was always racing, leaving me unable to retain anything. Nights were the worst: I’d fall asleep for about an hour before waking up in a panic, often calling my mom to come lay by my side or drive me around the neighborhood at 2 a.m. until I calmed down. My heart constantly raced, and the only solution doctors offered was sedation, which I hated. My life was a choice between sedation or panic—a choice I could no longer endure.

One particularly bad attack sent me back to the ER, where my body began to feel like it was shutting down. I couldn’t move my feet, fingers, or hands; I felt like a statue with no control over my mind or body. My mom rushed me to the hospital, where the nurse—now a familiar face—asked the same question: “Are you stressed about anything?” Once again, I answered no. My life was stable—good friends, a decent job, no major upheavals. Then I broke down crying and said, "I can't live like this anymore." She paused, leaned in, and whispered, “Are you suicidal?” I replied honestly, “I don’t know what that feels like, but I know I can’t go on anymore.”

My mom overheard that conversation. The next day, she took me to adopt Hoover, my rescue dog, who would become a vital part of my healing journey.

Because my panic attacks were so severe and no other cause was identified, doctors assumed something must be wrong with my heart so I was sent to specialist after specialist. They had me wear a heart monitor for a month. Predictably, my heart rate spiked during panic attacks, and it stayed elevated much of the time. At just 25 years old, they suggested open-heart surgery where they would use a shock to stop and restart my heart to better control the rhythm, as they were convinced my physical heart was the problem. But I hesitated and decided to try a different route first.

I opted for medication. The first prescription controlled my heart rate, preventing the need for ER visits. However, the panic attacks continued, so my doctor added anxiety and antidepressant medications. These allowed me to regain some sense of control. I could focus at work, follow TV shows, sleep through the night, and even close the door while showering - YAY! While the medication felt like a win, it also felt like a mask for the underlying issues. But it kept me functional, and for five years, I stuck to the regimen.

At 30, my life took a devastating turn. I lost both of my parents unexpectedly within seven months of each other. Grief consumed me, immobilized me, and left me utterly lost. I fled to the beach, where I began to feel the first glimmers of healing. During that retreat, I got my first tattoo in honor of my parents. The physical pain of the tattoo felt like a relief from the emotional pain I carried. However, I soon realized that I couldn’t rely on physical pain as a release.

When I returned to Arizona, I made a bold decision: I quit all my medications cold turkey. For the first time in five years, I stopped taking the pills that had kept me numb. The doctors were against my choice, but I was tired of the emotional detachment. I needed to feel—even if it meant risking panic attacks and sleepless nights in the ER. I understood that the only way out of the darkness was to go through it.

I immersed myself in therapy—every kind I could find. Over three years, I worked with a psychologist, a family therapist, a sound therapy practitioner, a hypnotherapist, and an intuitive energy reader. I also starting taking neuroscience and coaching classes to better understand mental health and develop coaching strategies to better lead myself. Music also became a cornerstone of my healing journey. Like the physical release I experienced with the tattoo, music became a way to process emotions. I intentionally listened to songs that evoked sadness, allowing myself to cry and release. 

Over time, I learned how to feel and release my own emotions—both positive and negative. Then that grew into a daily practice of self-awareness which stills continues today.

Through all of this, I discovered the gift within my grief: self-awareness. By becoming fully aware of my thoughts, feelings, and actions, I began to move forward. This journey transformed me and set me on a path to help others find their own self-awareness.

My wish for you is simple: dare to be aware, because true transformation begins with self-awareness.